|Portrait of the Artist as Weathervane
It seems the cows know something we should, each
steady as a sphinx in the pasture, clouds
pressing. If it’s in their gut, what happened
to us—was it a vestige combed out
by all this careful sex? My car wheezes
in the bend—oil pressure, stray bolt, one
of many belts and chains, exhausted. The signs
are there, but who’s to say? My mechanic
claims a car has its ticks like any body does.
And other animals go south for their pivotal season.
Some sleep it off like a hangover
as above and below us, flocks and fishes restructure
elsewhere, hardwired in their collective
security blankets, past winter’s lock and umbrage:
getting out of Dodge. With an ear to the earth
everyday now, I hear only myself growing louder.